Early the next morning I go to the nearest bank and open an account in Maralal, which is not easy, given that I can provide neither a street nor postal address. When I tell them I live in one of the manyattas in Barsaloi, they simply don’t believe it. How on earth do I get there? they ask. I tell them about the car, and in the end they let me open an account. I write to my mother, telling her now to send any money to Maralal.
I load up with food and set off. Obviously I take the shortest route, through the bush, otherwise I wouldn’t have enough fuel to get there and come back later. I can’t wait to see Lketinga’s face when I arrive at the village in the car.
The Land Rover copes with the steep dusty track, although I have to engage the four-wheel drive just before I get to the forest to avoid getting stuck. I’m proud of myself for having got to grips with the car so well. The trees are enormous, and I can tell from the overgrown path that the route has not been used for a long time. Then it goes downhill again, and I’m motoring along happily until suddenly I see a great herd of animals across the path. I break sharply. Didn’t Lketinga tell me there were no herds of cows around here? But one hundred and fifty feet closer to the herd I realize that what I thought were cows are in fact fully-grown buffalo.
What was it Lketinga said? The most dangerous animal in the bush isn’t the lion but the buffalo. And here are at least thirty of them, with young ones, great giants with broad noses and sharp horns. A few of them continue to graze peacefully, but some others have turned to look at my car. There’s steam coming from the herd, or is it rising dust? I stare frozen at them. Should I hoot or not? Do they recognize a car? I wait and wait, but they don’t move from the track, and eventually I hoot at them. At once they all raise their heads in my direction. Gingerly I engage reverse and parp again at short intervals. That is the end of their peaceful grazing. A few of the huge beasts start to lower their horns and cast around them. I watch in frozen terror hoping they’ll disappear into the thick forest rather than come up the path towards me. But before I can take in exactly what’s happening, the track is suddenly clear. The ghosts have vanished, leaving only a cloud of dust behind.
Even so, I wait cautiously for a few minutes before putting my foot down. The Land Rover rattles like it’s falling apart, but the only thought in my head is to get out of here as fast as possible. When I reach the spot where the animals were, I risk a quick glance into the forest but can see nothing, even though I can smell their freshly dropped dung. I have to hold on tight to the steering wheel to stop it being wrenched from my hands. After five minutes at top speed I slow down a bit, because the track is getting steeper and steeper. I stop and engage the four-wheel drive. I hope that will get me across this patch without tipping over because everywhere I look now I can see huge potholes and ravines. Feverishly I pray that the car will keep all four wheels on the ground. I don’t dare use the clutch for fear of falling out of gear! I make progress yard by yard with every imaginable disaster going through my head. Sweat is dripping into my eyes, but I don’t dare wipe it away because I need both hands to hang on to the steering wheel. After two or three hundred yards the worst of it is behind me, the forest is thinning out, and I’m happy to have a bit more light and air around me. Shortly afterwards I reach the scree slope. Even that looks different now. The last time I was sitting in the back, thinking only about Lketinga.
I stop and get out to see if the track really does keep going. In some places the stones are nearly half as big as the wheels of the Land Rover. Despite my experienced driving, I suddenly feel alone and scared. I try moving some of the stones together to make the downward steps less steep. Time’s getting on; it’ll be dark in two hours. How far is it still to Barsaloi? I’m so nervous I can’t remember anything. I engage the four-wheel drive and know that I mustn’t brake or change gear: just let the vehicle climb onwards even though it’s a steep downhill slope. The car manages the first hurdles even though the steering wheel is almost ripped out of my hand. The car scrapes and bumps, so long in the wheelbase that the rear end is often still on one rock when the front has already bumped down over another. Then halfway down the worst happens. The engine splutters briefly and dies. I’m halfway down a hill of stones, and the engine has croaked. How the hell am I going to bring it back to life? I hit the clutch briefly, and it shunts a couple of feet forwards. But I stop immediately; it’ll never work like that. I get out and see that one of the rear wheels is up in the air. I drag a big rock behind the other one, but I’m getting hysterical.
Then, climbing back into the car, I spot two warriors on a nearby outcrop watching me with interest. It obviously doesn’t occur to them to help me, but even so I feel a bit better not being so completely alone. I try again to start the engine. It clunks into life but then falters again. I try and try again. I want out of here. The pair over on the rocky outcrop just sit there. But how could they help anyhow? They obviously don’t know anything about engines.
When I’ve just about given up hope, suddenly it comes back to life as if nothing had ever happened. Gently, ever so gently, I ease off the clutch and hope that the vehicle can get itself over the remaining stones. After twenty yards or so I’m over the biggest rocks, and I can loosen my iron grip. Then I break into tears with the realization of the danger I was in.
From here on, the track is fairly flat. I catch sight of a few manyattas here and there and children who wave excitedly. I slow down for fear of running over one of the large number of goats. About half an hour later I reach the big Barsaloi River, which is not without its dangers in crossing because, although it is dry, there is quicksand. I engage the four-wheel drive again and drive at top speed across the hundred or so yards of its width. The car manages the last upward stretch to Barsaloi, and I drive proudly into the village. People come out from all over to watch, even the Somalis from their shops and all around me I hear, ‘Mzungu! Mzungu!’
Then all of a sudden Lketinga and two other warriors are standing in the street in front of me. Before I can even stop he’s jumped into the car beaming at me radiantly. ‘Corinne, you come back and with this car!’ He stares at me in disbelief, as happy as a child. I just want to embrace him. The two warriors jump in when he invites them, and we drive together to the manyatta. Mama runs away in fright, and even Saguna scampers away, but before long the parked vehicle is surrounded by old people and young people alike. Mama doesn’t want to leave the car near the tree because someone might deliberately damage it. Lketinga opens the briar fence, and I park the car next to the manyatta, which looks even smaller against the big vehicle. The contrast is really quite grotesque.
We unload all the foodstuffs and store them away inside the hut. I’m happy to get some of Mama’s chai, and she’s delighted by the sugar I’ve brought. In the meantime the shops have maize meal again but no sugar. Lketinga and the others are admiring the car. Mama talks and talks to me. I don’t understand a word but she seems happy because when I laugh helplessly she joins in.
It’s late before we get to bed this evening because I have to tell them everything. When I mention the buffalo everyone looks serious, and Mama keeps muttering ‘Enkai, Enkai,’ which means ‘God’. When the older brother comes back with the goats, he is amazed too. There’s a lot of conversation. The car will have to be watched all the time to make sure nobody steals it or damages it. Lketinga volunteers to spend the first night in it. I had somehow imagined our reunion differently, but I say nothing because his eyes are full of pride.
The next day he’s already keen to go for a drive, to see his half-brother, who keeps cows in Sitedi. I try to tell Lketinga that we can’t make any big expeditions because I don’t have any reserves of fuel. The indicator is showing half full. That’s just enough to get back to Maralal. He only reluctantly understands. I’m sorry too that I can’t show off and drive him proudly around the place, but I have to be strict.
Three days later the number two in the local government, known as the assistant chief, is outside our manyatta, talking to Lketinga and Mama. I hear the words ‘mzungu’ and ‘car’; they’re talking about me. He looks funny in his ill-fitting green uniform. Only the large gun at his side lends him an air of authority. He can’t speak English either. Afterwards he wants to look at my passport. I show it to him and ask what the problem is. Lketinga translates for me. I have to go to Maralal to register with the government office: Europeans are not allowed to live in manyattas.